Raising the Dead
by JudasFm
Summary: Set immediately after The Reichenbach Fall and contains spoilers for the end of that episode. John Watson believes that Sherlock is dead.  However, he's about to get a little bit of a shock...
1. Resurrection

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is mine. The BBC signed the copyright over to me and I own all the rights.

Oh no...wait, that was in a dream I had last Thursday. Never mind. Guess I don't own anything after all ;-)

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><p>I stood under the tree, watching John talk to my headstone. Funny, the things people do. This was the first time I'd seen him in the week since I 'died', and the first time I thought it was probably safe for him to see me. Earlier that morning that I'd tracked down the last of Moriarty's assassins and persuaded him to embark on a career change. He's currently attempting to break the world record for Longest Time Spent At The Bottom Of The Thames Without Breathing Apparatus. I imagine he'll be down there for quite a while.<p>

I'd still had to keep my head down a little, of course. Avoid the attention of the gutter press, that sort of thing. Luckily, this was easy. For one thing, they all thought I was dead. For another, not many reporters recognize me without The Hat.

I'd followed John here, keeping out of sight. I'd intended to make my return from the dead a little sooner, but part of me had hung back to eavesdrop on what he was saying, although since he was technically saying it to me, I don't suppose it would count as real eavesdropping. I won't bore you by repeating it, but it was...nice. Is that the word?

Yes. Nice. Nice to hear someone saying positive things about me for a change. I couldn't hang around here listening to my extended eulogy forever, though, and so I stepped out from underneath my tree and walked towards John, who was still apparently intent on having a conversation with my corpse. And they call _me_ strange.

"Sherlock, just...please. If you can hear me, if you can find a way to...to come back from the dead—" this with a shaky laugh— "and if _anyone_'s that clever, it's you, please...come back."

Since he didn't seem to have registered my presence, I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder.

"John—"

"YAAAH!"

Alright, that's not quite what he said, but phonetically I don't know how else to describe it and 'yaaah' is about as close as I can come. It was half a yell, half a...a squawk, I suppose. In the same way, I don't quite know how I'm to describe the way he jumped a foot into the air, arms flailing wildly, tripped over his own feet, fell on top of one Anna Parks and lay on his back staring up at me.

"A simple _hello_ would have done," I informed him.

It's a little difficult to tell what he replied, since he was breathing so fast when he said it, but I believe it was something like, "I...you...b-bu-but...and then...and you..._wha_...?"

Nice to see his conversation was as riveting and insightful as ever. As I watched, he licked his lips, swallowed hard and finally formed a coherent sentence with what looked like real effort.

"You're...not dead?"

"As ever, John, your observational skills are honed as sharp as a block of cheese, although you do seem to have retained your talent for stating the obvious. And do try not to scuff my headstone; it cost nearly two thousand pounds. Have you no respect for the dead?" Glancing over his shoulder at Anna Parks' headstone, I added, "Well, clearly not, since you're sitting on one of them."

"Sherlock, I...what the _hell_ are you doing being not dead? What _happened_?"

"I would have thought that was obvious, John. I faked my own death."

He stared at me for a long time, then said, "I'm taking you to my therapist. Right now!"

"Don't be absurd. I don't need a therapist. There's nothing traumatic about not being dead, John; people do it every day of their lives with no ill effects."

"Not for you; for me! If I go back and tell her you're still alive after I sat in her office and told her how upset I was that you were dead, she'll lock me in a rubber room and throw away the key!" John stared at me for a few seconds, then held out a hand. "You mind, uh..."

I reached down, he clasped my wrist and I hauled him to his feet, where he seemed a little reluctant to release his hold.

"More to the left," I told him.

"What? What is?"

"My pulse. You're a doctor, John, you should know that."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I've never had a dead flatmate come back to life before, Sherlock, so...so please forgive me if I'm a little off-balance right now!"

I grimaced. "I did not 'come back to life'; I was never dead to begin with!"

"Does Mrs Hudson know?"

"Of course. I had to have _someone_ there to make sure you didn't clear all my stuff away as part of the grieving process." I checked my watch, then glanced around in search of a restaurant. A small Chinese on the other side of the road looked promising and I turned back to John. "Lunch?"

"No! Sherlock, it...I don't understand. What really happened?"

I let an edge creep into my voice. I'd made more than enough allowances for his shock and I was hungry.

"I've told you what happened. I faked my own death, took care of the assassins who were set to kill a few people – including you, I might add – and now I'm back. I thought you'd be pleased."

I saw some of the manic emotion fade out of his eyes at that and he said, "Sherlock, I...I _am_ pleased. It's just that...this is a lot to take in all at once, you know?"

No, I didn't know. If I really _had_ died, his reaction would have been far more understandable. If our positions had been reversed, I suppose even my pulse would have quickened a little. But this had a perfectly logical explanation for it. Why was he getting so worked up?

"Does Mycroft know?"

"Of course. Who do you think paid for the headstone?"

"I..." John was quiet for a few minutes, then said, "I would have paid."

"He wouldn't have let you, even if I really had been dead. John, I haven't had a hot meal in at least a week, so I'm going into that restaurant over there. Are you coming, or would you rather stay here and keep telling the dead how wonderful I am? Not that I wasn't touched," I added, which was true. I'd never had anyone say things like that about me before, not really. I'm more used to being called a freak and told to piss off, and that's when people want to be nice to me.

"Sherlock, if you think I'm going to let you out of my sight—"

"Excellent. Come on." I led the way out of the graveyard, over the road and into the restaurant, John trailing along behind me.

Once inside, I ordered the biggest meal on the menu. I ordered in Mandarin, which not only keeps me in practice but gets me much better service at all Chinese restaurants, and set about trying to eat every single prawn cracker in the bowl before the food arrived, while John sat opposite me and wiggled his chopsticks. I've given up trying to teach him how to use them, and when the food arrived – sweet and sour king prawns with rice, my favorite – I sent the waiter back with a request for some cutlery.

This earned me a glare from John when it arrived, but he took the cutlery. Well, he had to, really, otherwise he puts as much food on the floor or down the front as he does in his mouth.

Once my stomach was feeling a little more satisfied, I pushed my plate away and looked at John. I supposed he was entitled to some sort of explanation.

"John...I couldn't let your response be an act. If Moriarty had even _suspected_ that the whole thing was faked and that you knew about it, he would have had you killed. You had to see it, and I had to _let_ you see it. I would have come out of hiding sooner, except I had a little business to take care of."

John looked at me for a long time. Eventually he said, "What kind of little business?"

"Let's just say that those snipers Moriarty hired won't be bothering anyone for a long time." I pronged a piece of his duck with my chopsticks and swallowed it down, barely pausing to chew. Keeping my head down had entailed going back onto the streets of London, with all the diet – or lack thereof – which they offered. I couldn't wait until I was back at Baker Street and could have a long, hot shower, wash the stink of the back alleys off me, and wash my coat (this is _not_ something I trust to Mrs Hudson, not after she shrank the last coat I had in the wash. Since this was the same day she found out about my eyeball collection, I'm not totally convinced this was an accident). I'd ducked my head in a fountain, just to get the worst of the grease out my hair, but I was looking forward to a real clean up.

"What about Lestrade? When are you going to tell him? Or does he know as well?"

"Of course not," I said around a mouthful of prawn toast. "Mycroft's going to lean on the papers, get them to print full retractions along with features about my deception and how everyone involved played along with me. Once that happens, I can walk into Scotland Yard any time I choose."

"You're looking forward to that, aren't you?"

"Yes." I was too. Quite apart from the fact that I like Lestrade, since he's smart enough to admit he's an idiot about certain things, I wanted to see Sally's and Anderson's faces when I strolled back in as though I'd never been away. I had a hunch that the sight would make up for every one of the past nights I'd spent freezing my backside off on the streets.

"Sherlock—" John whacked my approaching chopsticks with his fork before I could steal his last piece of duck— "why did you do it? What did Moriarty say to you?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. What was I supposed to say? He threatened to kill my friends if I didn't? No. I was sure that John would never believe I'd do something so..._emotional_.

I forced a smile onto my face and said, "Oh, what does it matter? I'm back."

John gave me a look. "Sherlock..."

"What? You thought I was dead. I'm not dead. This is supposed to be a celebratory meal!"

"For you it's a celebratory meal. For me, it's a celebratory forkful of rice, half a prawn cracker and a few pieces of duck and will you _get_ your chopsticks _away_ from my food!" John parried my chopsticks again, this time narrowly missing my hand. "Order another meal if you're still hungry!"

"Of course I'm hungry. This is the first good meal I've had since I went into hiding." I beckoned the waiter over and ordered some pork balls, then turned to John. "I hope you didn't throw out my experiments while I was gone."

John suddenly became very interested in the remains of his meal.

"Which ones?" I demanded.

"Um. The feet. And...your collection of eyeballs, um, grew a bit manky. There was this...sort of gray, jelly like film covering them, so I threw them out."

I glanced at him, interested. "Really? What kind of jelly?"

"You know—I _knew_ you were going to ask me that, Sherlock. I just _knew _it."

"Did you save any of it?"

"No, I didn't, because I didn't know you were coming back! Anyway, I had no idea what it _was_. For all I knew, your eyeball collection could have been going moldy; you've had it long enough!"

I stopped waiting for my pork balls and looked at him, my mind turning. I keep my eyeball collection well watered – human eyes are naturally moist and letting them dry out can affect the results of any experiments – and I'd never seen anything like what John was describing. Eyeballs growing mold...what a fascinating idea. I'd have to try it some time, see if it was possible.

John scowled at me. "Sherlock..." he began.

"Oh, for god's sake!" I knew what was coming; it was what always came when he knew about my experiments in advance. "I know what you're going to say. It was a one-off. Just a simple test on the blood coagulation in thumbs compared to that in big toes at set times after death."

"It was a simple test on the blood coagulation in thumbs compared to that in big toes at set times after death that you carried out in my _sock drawer_!"

"Yes, because the optimum conditions for that particular phase of the experiment happened to _be_ in your sock drawer." I grabbed one of my newly arrived pork balls and bit it in half.

"House rules, Sherlock. No experiments in _any_ of my drawers. We agreed."

I frowned. "What? No we didn't."

"Yes, we did. We talked it out and we agreed on it yesterday."

"I was dead yesterday. At least, you thought I was."

"Yes. Well." John lifted his glass in a toast. "Not my fault you weren't listening."

I smiled a little at that and clicked my glass against his. "Agreed."

Satisfied, John drank his water and I sipped at mine, wondering as I did so whether there would be time for me to sneak my experiment in tooth erosion off the top of his wardrobe before he noticed...

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><p><strong>Okay, I'm working on a full-length Sherlock fic, but since it's set after <em>The Reichenbach Fall<em>, I wanted to write this one first ;-) Hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review!**


	2. Scotland Yard

**TheMeddler: **Thanks XD As for how Sherlock managed to fake his own death, who knows? I guess we'll have to wait a couple of years to find out

**Q: **Yeah, I write Sherlock too ;) There seemed to be far too many angst fics out there, so I wanted to write something more in keeping with the series XD

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><p>"Battersea Baffled By Big Burglaries?"<p>

"Boring, and too much alliteration. Next."

"Mysterious—"

"Next," I interrupted.

John glanced at me over the paper. "You don't even know what it is."

I sighed.

"A newspaper would only list a case as _mysterious_ if it was too boring to catch the public eye and sell papers otherwise. If it's too boring for the public, it's definitely too boring for me. Next."

John turned a page, hunting through the paper for something intellectually stimulating and important enough for me to get involved. Since the paper in question happened to be _The Sun_, even I had to admit this was something of a challenge.

"Oh, here's something. Mogul Emerald Stolen, Reward Offered." John whistled. "One hundred thousand pounds."

Money. Why does he get so obsessed over money? Why does _anyone_ get so obsessed over money? It's one of the most boring things in existence. Doesn't do anything, just sits there waiting for someone to come along and give you something nice in exchange for it.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I pay my share of the rent. I buy groceries when it's my turn (and sometimes even when it's John's turn, depending on how much he spent on this month's girlfriend). I pay half the bills. I accept that money is necessary in this world. It's just so damn _dull_. Where's the _challenge_? You can get money just by pushing a hoover around some rich man's house or by shoveling sewage or emptying dustbins. All worthwhile occupations, I'm sure, but not exactly stimulating.

"Could be an interesting case," John hinted.

It really is astonishing how often _interesting case_ and _case with at least five figure reward _coincide in John's mind.

"Inside job by a rich celebrity to generate publicity. She obviously hid it somewhere. Not worth my time. Next."

There was a short silence, one I was very familiar with. Five, four, three, two, one—

"How the hell do you know _that_?"

—bingo! If only the weather was this predictable. I've been trying to teach John how to think, but it's a very slow process.

Actually, no, that's not fair. John_ is_ learning, although as with any new skill, it takes time to become proficient. Still, at a typical crime scene, I can confidently say that he will now only miss twenty obvious and important things, as opposed to his previous twenty one. On a good day he'll only miss seventeen or eighteen, although those don't come along very often and when they do they're usually related either to the Army or some obscure medical facts.

"Oh, for god's sake, John, isn't it obvious?" I demanded.

From the vacant look on his face, it clearly wasn't. I sighed.

"The last record of the Mogul Emerald was in two thousand and one when it was sold by Christie's for two point two million pounds to an anonymous buyer. You wouldn't sell something like that privately, you'd never get what it was really worth. No, the only way would be to sell it through another big auction house, therefore this so-called theft has been reported by the same person who bought it ten years ago. If she were serious about remaining anonymous, she would have called the police, kept it hushed up. No, she goes straight to the press with it, gets them to run a major story. Next week, the emerald's magically found in a toilet cistern or in her makeup bag or somewhere equally improbable, maybe someone will be named, maybe not, works better if the person returning it is completely anonymous, that way nobody's going to check whether or not the reward was actually paid or indeed if such a person even exists. Having generated all this publicity, she'll then permanently loan the emerald to a museum and impress everyone with her generosity, bringing herself into the public eye once again and earning herself a lot more jobs in the process. So, who would care about that level of publicity? Politician? Maybe, but it doesn't actually pay as well as people think and besides, admitting they have a jewel worth in excess of two million pounds will just get a load of people banging on about wasting the taxpayers' money. Therefore, clearly an actress or a supermodel and clearly an inside job. Case closed, move on, next."

John was gawking at me with his jaw hanging. He does this a lot.

"_She_?" he said at last.

"_Could_ be a man," I admitted, "but not very likely. Men tend to go for yachts or islands, or expensive paintings. Not many of them buy jewels, even of that caliber."

"And...an actress?"

"Not many people earn enough to spend over two million pounds on nothing more than a big shiny rock either. Really, John, you ought to be able to work _that _much out at least!"

"But how—" John began.

"No. Bored now. Next case."

"There is no next case."

I blinked, sitting up and swinging my bare feet off the couch.

"There must be a next case."

"No." John tossed the paper over his shoulder to join the fourteen others he'd gone through that morning.

"Hasn't _anyone_ been murdered today?" I demanded. "Or even in the last week?"

"Sorry."

"God! What the hell are people _doing_ with themselves?"

John drummed his fingers on the table for a few seconds, then glanced at me. "Tell you what you could do."

God help me, I was actually desperate enough to listen to him.

"What?"

"Well, you still haven't visited Lestrade and the others at Scotland Yard."

I shrugged. "No point. Mycroft had all the papers run the story. My name's cleared, and my reputation is intact again. Lestrade already knows what happened."

"Not quite," John pointed out. "They didn't say anything in the papers about you still being alive. Just imagine the look on Lestrade's face when you walk in." He paused, then said, "Or Sally's."

I was off the sofa and onto my feet in an instant. "I'll get my coat."

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><p>I was actually looking forward to seeing Lestrade. He's one of the very few people I can tolerate – and more importantly, who can tolerate <em>me – <em>for any length of time. He's also one of the even fewer people who stood by me during Moriarty's attempts to discredit me.

I'm not a fan of drama for the sake of it (despite John's sarcastic remarks about my coat collar) but I couldn't help enjoying the reactions as I walked into Scotland Yard and through CID. Heads turned. Jaws dropped. Phones went unanswered. Conversations died. Given the state of chaotic busyness that usually exists within the place, I was surprised that Lestrade didn't immediately poke his head out of his office door to demand what all the quiet was about.

As it turned out, Lestrade was standing with his back to the door when John and I entered. He didn't turn around to acknowledge our presence, which is a sure sign that something's wrong.

"Greg?" John's voice was a little apprehensive; even he must have been able to observe that Lestrade had something serious on his mind.

"John." Lestrade spoke without turning around. "Yeah. Sorry, haven't got time to talk right now; there's been a series of murders followed by sexual assaults on a bunch of teenage victims in the East End. It's only a matter of time until the papers get hold of it and when they do, I'd like to have something to tell 'em."

My flatmate frowned. "You mean...sexual assaults followed by murders?"

Lestrade let out a short, hollow laugh. "No, I don't!"

John winced. "Ooh."

"Yeah, it's a big case. Nasty one too."

"Your big case, is it?" I asked him, moving an unprotesting John out of the way. "Would you like it to be your _last_?" (I couldn't have stopped myself for the world).

Lestrade froze. Really froze. I don't think the man was even _breathing_.

"W-what?" he said at last.

"Oh, that's not what you're supposed to say," I told him. "For that matter, it's not what you _did_ say. I seem to remember that the words _sunshine_ and _dickhead_ featured rather prominently in your original answer."

Slowly, so slowly that I was tempted to grab him and help him along a little, Lestrade turned to face me.

"Good morning, Detective Inspector," I said. "It's been a while."

I could see his mouth and throat working as various words fought for control. At last he said, "What the _bloody _hell are _you_ doing here?"

"Giving you a brain hemorrhage, apparently," I answered, then gestured at the chair in front of his desk. "Do you mind?"

"Are you _real_? I mean, you're really here? I've not been working too hard or anything?"

"John believes I'm here, and he's a _medical_ man," I answered, sitting down in front of Lestrade. "Took my pulse and everything."

"You...what? Faked it?"

"Well done. You got there quicker than John; I had to spoon feed him the answer."

"What happened to the hat?"

I glared at him. Lestrade knows my feelings on The Hat. Everyone in Scotland _Yard_ knows my feelings on The Hat. I wish I'd never picked the damn thing up.

"I lost it," I told him.

"Really? Oh. Sergeant Donovan's going to be very upset," Lestrade answered in an innocent tone which didn't fool me for a second. "That present was her idea."

"Ah. I must remember to send her a thank you letter."

Lestrade fixed me with a hard stare, all innocence gone. "Yeah, well, don't wrap it around a brick this time, will you?"

John glanced at me, all abounce with curiosity that I had no intention of satisfying.

"For god's sake, that was over five years ago!" I reminded Lestrade.

"Yeah, I know, but women never forget things like that. And Sally always knew that the note that came through her window also came from you."

I gave Lestrade my most imperious stare. "Of course she knew it came from me. I signed it. Where is Sergeant Donovan anyway?"

"Off on her lunch break. So's Anderson, and half the staff. And no, I won't tell you where; if you're going to meet her again, I'd rather you do it here, where there's witnesses."

I smiled. People complain that I rarely take a liking to anyone, but by the same token, I very rarely take a _dislike_ to anyone either. Sally Donovan is one of the exceptions and the more people were around to witness her reaction to my resurrection, the more satisfied I'd be. She's not too popular with the rest of Scotland Yard either, Anderson notwithstanding. As far as my return from the dead went, I was happy just to walk around and let people see me for the most part, but Sally...no. I had something rather more special in mind for Sally.

It took a little persuasion on my part to convince Lestrade to go along with my idea, but at last he agreed on the condition that I would solve this latest mystery and that he could use me on one additional case of his choice in the future, no matter how boring, and went out with John to get some lunch.

I sat down in Lestrade's chair and waited until I saw Sally enter the room, then I turned around so that the chair back was to the door. I was sure she'd come in sooner or later.

I wasn't disappointed. Two minutes and thirty four seconds after I'd turned my back, the door to the office clicked open and Sally breezed in.

"I've just been speaking to..." She broke off. "Sir? You alright?"

"I was just thinking about Sherlock," I said in Lestrade's voice.

"The freak?" There was a clunk as Sally put her coffee down on the desk. "Why?"

I had intended to end the charade at this point, but Sally's tone irritated me. It always does. I've been called _freak_ all my life – when I was a very little boy I remember asking Mother why I had two names at school and Mycroft only one (and was told that if only I'd try to be a little more _like_ Mycroft, people would like me better) – but that doesn't mean I like it, and I really don't like the way Sally calls me it. She's always so _smug_, like she thinks she's the cleverest woman on Earth for coming up with the name, and so I decided to amuse myself by playing with her mind for a little while longer.

"Sergeant, I really think you ought to show a little more respect for the dead."

"Sorry sir. But you have to admit that, well, he wasn't exactly normal, was he? What kind of person gets off on crime scenes? Think there was something missing up there, sir."

That has to be the most stupid thing a police officer has ever said, and when you consider the amount of time I've spent with people like Anderson, that's quite a statement.

I watched her reflection in the window and waited until she turned to leave, then swiveled my chair around to face her. Lestrade would probably try to kill me for what I was about to do, but I was enjoying myself too much to care.

"Right, that does it. Sergeant Donovan, you're off the case."

"I'm _what_?" Sally turned, saw me for the first time and went white.

"You heard me," I told her, still in Lestrade's voice. "Now go on, clear off! Some of us have work to do."

Sally took a tentative half step toward me. I could read her thoughts as easily as if they were printed on her face; her eyes were telling her one thing, her ears another and her brain kept insisting that what she was seeing was impossible. I have to admit, I was surprised. I was certain that she would have worked out what had happened in an instant, when instead she seemed to think that I really _was _Lestrade and that she was hallucinating. It was clear from the bags under her eyes (poorly concealed with makeup) that she hadn't been sleeping well, but she must _really _be exhausted to have attained this level of confusion.

"Freak...?" It was more a whisper than a word.

"What did you call me, Sergeant?" I half rose from behind the desk, the very picture of an outraged DI, my body language identical to how Lestrade's would have been.

Sally stared at me, eyes, ears and brain waging a three-way battle for supremacy. I was taking mental bets on which of them would win when Anderson came in with a folder in his hands, saw me and stopped dead.

"Yes, Anderson, what is it?" I said as Lestrade.

Anderson looked from me to Sally (who I know for a fact caused ructions for him at home by 'accidentally' telling his wife about their affair, leading to his sleeping on the couch for the past week) and back to me again, then handed me a manila folder and said, "The case file you requested earlier, sir."

"Yeah, cheers." Even if he'd only played along with me to get back at Sally for upsetting his not so happy home, I made a mental note not to call Anderson an idiot more than five times an hour the next time we worked together, no matter _how_ much provocation I received from him.

I don't know how long I could have kept this going, as even Sally Donovan wasn't stupid or exhausted enough to believe she was hallucinating indefinitely, but it didn't matter since at that point Lestrade returned with John and a bag from the local McDonalds, and that was enough to give the game away.

I grinned. Not something I do very often, I admit, but the look on Sally's face as she realized what had happened made up for a lot of things I'd suffered recently.

"You...you..._freak_!"

It was a little difficult to tell which of us she was addressing, since she kept turning from one to the other. Based on past history though, I believe she was referring to me, and I made a mental note to have a little chat with Lestrade about his officers' attitude toward the public. I'm very tired of being called that, and if he wants me to keep doing what I do, the least he could do in return is to ensure everyone involved uses my name.

"I do hope the champagne you bought to celebrate my demise wasn't _too_ expensive, Sally," I said.

Lestrade stepped between us before Sally had a chance to do something she'd regret, like leaping on my face and attempting to chew out my eyeballs, for example.

"Alright Sherlock, you've had your fun."

"Yes I have." Oh, how I envy the common mind. To think they get such high levels of enjoyment from watching reality TV and playing pointless video games, while I have to risk assault, imprisonment or even death just to stop being bored. "I'll be in touch about this case, Lestrade. Text me the details. Come on, John, we're going."

I strode out the door and kept walking, smiling. Sally Donovan's had payback coming for a long time. It's always nice to help the universe along a little.

"What was all that about?" John demanded as soon as we were outside.

"What?"

"That! In there, just...that! Why did you say that to Lestrade, about it being his last case?"

"First thing I ever said to him. When Lestrade and I met, he'd only recently been promoted to DI. He was working on a spate of murders across the East End. I finally managed to get in to talk to him, and he told me he was handling it all fine, that this was his first big case, and I asked him if he wanted it to be his last. I then told him about his marital problems, his sleeping habits for the past two nights and his attempts to give up smoking."

"And...?"

"And he ordered me off the crime scene, although I did tell him the three main things I'd observed before I went. Took two days and another murder before Lestrade came to his senses and begged for my help. By that evening, the killer was arrested and in custody and Lestrade was the hero of the day. After that, he'd call me whenever he had a—"

"Psst! Sherlock!"

There is only one person I know in the entire world, never mind in London, who actually _says_ "Psst" and I slowed to a stop.

"Carly." I turned, a slight smile on my face, and held out my hand. "How are you?"

Carly shook my hand, grinning. I don't know if that's her real name, but it's the one she gave me, and she and I have been acquainted for nearly ten years. That's a long time on London streets. Most of the people I knew from my own days living on those same streets have been dead for years.

"Can't complain," Carly answered. "Well, I could, but it's not like anyone'd bother to listen."

"What have you got for me?"

The grin broadened. "New one, Sherlock. Saw him under Waterloo Bridge this morning."

"Interesting. Tell me more."

Carly shrugged. "Don't know there's much more I _can_ tell you. He's a bit jumpy though, so you might wanna go in gently."

"Drugs?" I have no use for addicts; I need someone who's going to be focused on something other than their next hit, and someone who won't sell me out for the price of that same hit.

"Nah. Or if it is, they ain't strong ones. But like I say, he's new on the streets, so I thought maybe..." She shrugged again, one eye on my pocket where she knows I keep my wallet.

I took it out, peeled off a fifty pound note and gave it to her. I'm always looking for new additions to the Homeless Network. The current members know this, and more to the point, they _also_ know that I pay very well for new blood (their words, not mine). In addition to the fifty I'd just given her, Carly would get another hundred if the new one she'd told me about agreed to work for me. So far, I have to say that she's never steered me wrong on that score; she's told me about seventeen other people since I first met her and every one of them worked out fine, which is why she's moved up to getting a little bonus upfront as well as payment afterwards. I've discovered to my cost that she's not very good at anything in the way of spying, but she does have an unerring talent for spotting new recruits. Personally I think she tells them about me before coming to tell _me_ about _them_, but that's alright. I gain a new recruit, she gains some money and everyone's happy.

I glanced at John and said, "You may as well go back to the flat. This could take a while."

He looked surprised. "What?"

"I never bring people with me when I'm meeting a potential Networker for the first time. I don't like them to feel outnumbered."

John raised his eyebrows. "That...you know, Sherlock, that's actually considerate of you. I'm impressed."

"I've been where they are, John. It's not a nice place."

Before he had time to inquire further into this (honestly, how did I think I became so familiar with the streets of London or set up the Homeless Network in the first place?) I turned and strode away. A new case – better yet, a potential serial killer! – and a new recruit for the Network. So far, this was shaping up to be a _very_ good day.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, I originally intended for this story to be a one-shot, but a reviewer requested a Scotland Yard chapter and I wanted to write it, so I figured, why not? ;) Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!<strong>


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